


lick my wounds with honey, save me for the vultures

by smallredboy



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hercules Mulligan-centric, Hopeful Ending, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Nightmares, Non-Linear Narrative, Nonbinary Character, Polyamory, Trans Character, Trauma, recent Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 14:04:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15642258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: Herc goes back to Ireland for vacation. When he comes back to New York to his significant others, he's changed a lot.





	lick my wounds with honey, save me for the vultures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [owlsii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlsii/gifts).



> trigger warning for discussions of rape. there's no graphic rape scene, but the work is centered heavily around the effects of rape. all the characters in this work (except for peggy) are trans and/or nonbinary, and i am a trans sexual abuse survivor myself.
> 
> title from 'TRIP' by brockhampton.
> 
> also a prompt fill. enjoy!

John drops by Herc's tailor shop.    
  
Herc has been drowning himself in work lately, in a fashion much more like Alex. All of Herc's significant others (John, Alex, Laf and Aaron) are worried for him. John is the only one who will say something, though.    
  
"Hi," John says as he closes the door behind himself. Herc stiffens a little and looks up at him, his gaze empty. "I decided to come see you." The lack of excitement in Herc's eyes makes John uncomfortable. It's not the Herc he knows— what could've possibly happened?    
  
"Yeah," Herc nods. He looks back at the dress he's sewing and bites his lip a little. "Go take a seat."   
  
John doesn't; he walks towards him and rests his chin on his shoulder. He puts a hand on his side, rubbing it. Herc stiffens against his touch, and he looks  _ defeated _ , his jaw clenched ever so slightly.    
  
"John, I'm trying to work," he points out, voice quiet. Way too quiet for Hercules Mulligan.    
  
"I'm worried about you," he says. Herc's jaw clenches harder. " _ We're _ worried about you."   
  
Herc gulps and starts sewing again. "Why? I'm okay, John."   
  
"There's something you're not telling us, Herc."   
  
Herc takes a deep breath and pushes John away. Not forcibly— he just nudges his hand off him and does the same with his chin on his shoulder. "John, I'm trying to work," he repeats, voice a little shaky.    
  
"Please tell us what's wrong, sweetheart."   
  
Herc's face scrunches up at the pet name, not enough for John to notice.    
  
"We really care about you."   
  
Herc looks up at him; his face is devoid of emotion. “I know, Jacky.”   


John insists, voice as soft as he can make it, “You can tell us.”   


“There’s nothing wrong.”   


John sighs in defeat. He knows Herc isn’t going to budge, isn’t going to tell him what happened. He doesn’t want to force him to tell him, either — communication is important, but he doesn’t want to force it out of Herc. He gives him a small smile, cups his cheek, runs his thumb over his chin. Herc stiffens a little at the touch, but he looks up. His eyes are a little hopeful.

“When you feel ready to tell us, you can come to us, okay?”

Herc looks down at the floor, tears welling up in his eyes. It breaks John’s heart, to see his strong, kind boyfriend be like this. “Okay,” he whispers.   


* * *

When Herc comes back from his vacation in Ireland, he’s still shaken to his very core. His whole body feels like it’s rotting, and all he wants is to pretend what happened in his parents’ home country never ever happened. A part of him is aware how obvious it’ll be — as soon as he walked into his grandma’s house that night she knew something had happened, and he’d hidden most of it with one of Laf’s hoodies he took with him.

Herc lets himself grin wide as three of his partners — John, Laf, and Aaron — run to his embrace. He lets them hug him as tight as possible, and he thinks he’ll be alright. He kisses them again and again, trying to filter out the pet names that make his skin itch. 

“Mon amour, I missed you so much!” Laf exclaims, delighted, and Herc laughs as he lets them kiss him senseless, all over his face and their beard tickling their jaw.

“I missed you too, Laf,” he replies, cupping their cheek. They’re so handsome nowadays, even more so than when they met. Back then Laf was skinnier and smaller, as they had barely started testosterone — but now their body shows their masculinity, muscle and beard and curls shaping their face just right.

John has a wide grin on his face, the one Herc doesn’t see all too often. John keeps his feelings under, under, under; his father only exacerbated that custom. He only smiles like this when all five of them are together, or when he notices how much his top surgery scars have faded. He shows them off afterward, wearing tank tops and going shirtless during summer. 

And Aaron — well, he’s Aaron. Their huge polyamorous relationship didn’t start all five of them at once; it started with Aaron and John and him. He’s the man that introduced them to the all-too-loud trio. He’s smiling, one of those quiet, adorable smiles Herc loves. But his lip twitches slightly, and Herc wonders for a second if he knows; if he’s somehow read through his joy and knows what happened to him.

He ignores the nagging voice in his head and has a group hug with all three of them. He switches between kissing John and Aaron, at some moment Laf whines about Herc not paying attention to them. 

“You hogged him enough, pretty boy,” John says, all twinkling eyes and Laf goes silent for a good twenty seconds because of the pet name. John laughs and kisses Herc again and again.

Herc believes, even if for just a second, that maybe he’ll be alright.

* * *

In his dreams, it doesn’t go like it actually did.

There’s no knife as the man looks at him with a wolfish grin, looking as storybook as possible, as if he’s the wolf and he’s just his next victim. Herc gets pinned down, gets stripped down, just goes  _ down  _ and  _ down  _ and  _ farther down _ , until all he’s got is a void inside him and rotting flesh.

They’re in Dublin in his dreams and not in Bré. There’s no sea, there’s just city and houses, and the man wraps a hand around his throat.

Herc wakes up screaming and crying, his body shaking and his mind taking a while to understand that he’s not in Dublin or in Bré or anywhere in Ireland, but that he’s back home and he’ll never touch him again. Herc lets himself slump against his desk, the dress he was sewing before passing out getting rumpled from him laying on it. He doesn’t care right now.

He hears the rustling of keys and a whimper escapes his mouth; he looks up and sees Alex walking in. He looks just as overworked as he is, but that’s his usual self. He’s not doing this to cope with something terrible, unlike him.

Alex looks at him worriedly and walks towards him. He pets his curls and frowns a little. “Did you fall asleep?”

Herc can’t stop himself from croaking out a “Yes,” his voice breaking.

Alex’s frown deepens. “Let’s get you out of here, alright?”

Herc knows Alex couldn’t carry him even in his wildest dreams, so he gets up and fixes his work shirt before walking to the door. His step is light and unsure as if he doesn’t want to make any noise. Alex looks more worried with every passing second, and Herc wants to say it so bad, wants to explain it so bad.

But he’s big and burly and a man, a man no matter what his birth certificate might say. And he’s muscular and tall and surely he could’ve fought back now, couldn’t he? It’s stupid, he knows — but if his partners blamed him like he blames himself it’d break him. Break him further than he already feels like he is, that is.

Herc gets into his own car, riding shotgun as Alex takes the driver’s seat. He drives cautiously as if he’s waiting for something to spring upon them. Herc can’t help but flinch whenever he sees the front of a bar or a pub, his skin itching with too many memories associated with a place like that.

Alex parks in the driveway and helps Herc walk towards their house. They’re both eerily quiet, and Herc wonders how much it’ll take before Alex asks. Before they all ask what’s wrong with him, what the hell happened during his vacation. He’s been like this ever since the plane landed on New York, and he’s aware it’s obvious. Painfully obvious, even.

He sits down on the couch, his face unreadable as he crosses his legs and Alex brings him some coffee. He takes short sips, the taste bitter in his mouth. He’s never liked coffee too much, but Alex still gives him some whenever he thinks he might need it.

When Laf comes home, they walk towards him and sit next to him. They wrap an arm around him and kiss him and tell him everything’s alright. “You can let it out, you know,” Laf says, voice so sweet and so caring and it makes something deep inside Herc. Because — what if they blame him, oh God, what if they blame him?   


“I passed out while working,” Herc says, looking down at the empty coffee cup. “I had a nightmare.”   


“About what?” Laf presses — Laf nudges, all too softly, all too kind. 

Herc’s guts twist and he doesn’t reply. He looks up, Alex plopping down on one of the chairs in the dining table and his laptop there. He asks Alex for more coffee.

* * *

A month after coming back from Ireland, he secretly starts seeing a therapist.

They all have their own money, their own finances. No one bats an eye when he says he has to go somewhere — John also disappears saying ‘I gotta go somewhere’ and then coming back blasted from a party. 

His therapist is a woman. Smaller than him by quite a bit, intelligent eyes and chubby and with a welcoming smile. He talks about being trans and gay and his four partners, clearly avoiding why he’s here.

It’s a long game of charades, really. Trying to get to the point of why he’s here, sitting down at a therapist’s office, nails bitten and his facial hair unshaven. He usually takes good care of his appearance, goes to the gym and takes selfies so his partners can swoon over him. He can’t bring himself to do that now, not really. He feels disgusting, too disgusting to look at.

He explains; he explains being at a bar and getting out to get some air. He explains the man, shorter and smaller than him but so sure of himself. Her eyes gleam with something like understanding, and Herc squirms in his seat.

“So you were…?” and she doesn’t finish the sentence, as if she knows he couldn’t be able to hear it out loud.

“Yes,” Herc nods, feeling a lump form in his throat. He’s so afraid of any comments, and he hasn’t told the whole story. He blinks back his tears and says softly, “At knifepoint.   


She hums and writes something down on her notes. There’s no comment, no prompt to say anything else, nothing. 

Herc blinks and swallows. “You aren’t — you aren’t gonna ask why I didn’t fight him off? Not gonna blame me?”   
  
His therapist — Peggy Schuyler, his mind provides — gives him a welcoming smile and a tilt of her head. “Of course not, Hercules. I wouldn’t ever blame one of my patients for their assault.”

“But I could’ve easily —”

“You were at knifepoint, Hercules,” she interrupts ever so gently. “You were scared for your life. Stop blaming yourself.”   


Herc lets the tears fall this time. He lets Peggy pick him apart and help him cope. He can hide this and never have to be asked, right? Right?

* * *

Alex peeks his head in through the door to John’s studio. “Herc? John?”

Herc is on one of the chairs, watching John work the easel in silence. The strokes of the paintbrush are calming, soothing — Herc can’t think of what happened to him when he’s watching John paint a portrait of Laf. The room smells heavily of weed, like most places John takes home in do, but he deals.

John looks up when Alex calls up, and Herc does too. “Yeah?” John says, blinking up at him. He gets up, leaving his paintbrush on its place and leaning in to kiss Alex.

“We need to talk.”

Herc’s body is immediately filled up by dread. He gets up almost robotically. “Alright.” He leans in for a kiss just like John did, and follows Alex to the living room. The sofa is already occupied by Aaron (who’s fidgeting and looking at Herc) and Laf (who’s brows are furrowed and they’ve got their phone in their hands). Herc sits on one of the loveseats, and John sits on the armrest of the same one. Alex sits down on the armrest of the sofa.

“Something happened while you were at your home country,” Aaron accuses. It’s not an accusation, more of a statement, more of a fact, but it sounds accusatory,

Herc shrinks on himself a little and draws in a deep breath. He can’t keep hiding forever, but the idea of losing his partners, of them all blaming him, makes him so terrified. He’s cried in the shower more at the idea of losing them than at the memories of him. 

“Mhm,” he nods.

“You’ve been acting so quiet and apprehensive and you had a nightmare, mon amour,” Laf says, leaning over to clasp their hand over Herc’s. He represses a sob. “You need to tell us what happened.”   


Herc draws in a breath. And another. Counts to ten in his head, to twenty, to thirty. Until everything calms down in his brain. “I went to a bar when I was in Bré,” he starts, voice quiet and shaky. “I got people flirting with me as usual, right?”   
  
“You’re too handsome to not get flirted on,” Laf tells him, squeezing his hand.

Herc doesn’t smile at that. “One of them wouldn’t back off when I told him I was taken.”   


“Damn,” John says. And there’s an understanding in his eyes, one Herc is too afraid to ask about. 

“And I went outside to take some air. And the same guy who wouldn’t back off — he —”

Suddenly, his mouth doesn’t cooperate with him. His vision goes blank and bile goes to the back of his throat. He coughs, clears his throat, lets some tears slip down his cheeks. “He — he…” He can’t bring himself to say the word. The word that defines his act, the word that gives it a name. It’s such a strong word, which fits what the man did, but he can’t. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t.

He looks down at the floor, mouths it without making any noise.

Laf wraps an arm around him; he buries his face on their chest and cries. He cries until there are no more tears left to spill, and Laf hugs him tight. He feels John’s arm wrapped around his back and his hand laying on his side. They both hold him together, let him cry it out.

John cups his cheek with his hand once he’s done, and he runs his finger across his cheekbone. “You’re so strong, Hercules.” And it’s adoring, but Herc’s guts twist uncomfortably and he sobs.

“I know, I’m sorry I didn’t fight him off, I’m sorry I let myself be used by somebody else, I’m sorry —”

“Hey,” Aaron says softly, all too softly. He makes him look up, and he kisses him, and Herc sobs against Aaron’s lips. When he pulls away, there’s a soft, understanding smile and a bit of pity in his eyes. “Don’t blame yourself, love. You’re not at fault here. We love you.”

They all say something in agreement, and Herc’s eyes well up with tears again.

“We can go through this. You can go through this,” Aaron continues, looking at him with so much love it hurts him inside out. Fuck, they love him — they love him and they don’t blame him like he blames himself and nobody’s gonna leave.

“I started seeing a therapist,” Herc says.

“That’s great,” Alex says, sitting on the coffee table so he’s close to all of them. 

“I’ve recognized most of my triggers at this point,” he says, shrugging a little. Alex has been through trauma too, he knows this well — he’s calmed him down from panic regarding storms more than once. So he can explain and no one will be left behind. “I really don’t like being at bars or around them now. And the pet name sweetheart. And like, a friend pointed a knife at me jokingly the other day and I almost had a panic attack, so.”

“We’ll remember those,” Aaron says, kissing his eyelids and kissing his tear tracks. “We’ll be here for you, Herc.”

“Thank you,” he says softly. 

This time, Herc believes wholeheartedly that he’ll be alright.


End file.
